


M

by Uozumi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uozumi/pseuds/Uozumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John chronicled a great rivalry between Sherlock and Moriarty, both Sherlock and John believing Moriarty’s motivations revolved around the consulting detective. However, Moriarty’s target had always been someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	M

**Author's Note:**

> **Fandom** _Sherlock_  
>  **Character(s)/Pairing(s)** Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty, John Watson; pre-fic Mycroft/omc briefly   
> **Genre** Alternate Universe/Crime/Drama/Family  
>  **Rating** PG-13  
>  **Word Count** 2847  
>  **Disclaimer** Sherlock c. Sir Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, WB   
> **Summary** John chronicled a great rivalry between Sherlock and Moriarty, both Sherlock and John believing Moriarty’s motivations revolved around the consulting detective. However, Moriarty’s target had always been someone else.  
>  **Warning(s)** spoilers up through series two episode one, character deaths, violence, drug use  
>  **Notes** Many thanks to Kitty who helped with the Britpicking and the inspiration for the fic while discussing what we learned from “A Scandal in Belgravia.” The title of this fic is not a reference to _M_ (1931).

**_M_ **

The Reichenbach Hotel was the newest in hotels for the modern rich. The rooms were spacious, filled with clean colours and dark woods. The hotel rooms encircled a large, multi-story open-air foyer and recreation centres with a controlled, man-made waterfall cascading through the center of every floor encircled by decorative fencing from the top floor to a pool that recycled the water back to the top from the floor below the first floor foyer. The waterfall’s structure along with strategic columns helped support each floor. The top floor was the grand ballroom since it was the least likely floor one could get wet from the mist surrounding the spray from the waterfall. 

At this hour, the only lights on in the ballroom were safety lighting and the lights that illuminated the falls. Two men stood in silhouette. One of them cocked a gun. 

“You can’t shoot me in this light,” a high voice teased. “We both know you’re night-blind.” He stepped deeper into the shadows near doors that led to the building’s power and necessary equipment. Part of the building’s design was to protect vital controls inside vented rooms rather than leave them on the roof. 

“All I need is one shot.” The gun moved in the same direction as the taunting man. “I know where you are.” 

“Your brother,” the voice now came from behind as Jim Moriarty hovered at the edge of minimal lighting, “is coming.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft turned and levelled the gun at Moriarty. “You won’t get to see him.” 

The first text message came on one of Mycroft’s worse nights just over ten years ago. His mother was in one of her more psychotic episodes, which became more frequent towards the end of her life. He walked into the sitting room to await a doctor he knew would discreetly take his mother to the psychiatric ward until she came back to her good days. A figure on the couch gave Mycroft pause. It was his younger brother, who managed to remember to put his cigarette out before falling asleep. Mycroft walked over and carefully took Sherlock’s bony wrist in his fingers and felt for his pulse. His lips turned down into a grimace and he lifted Sherlock’s eyelids, studying the pupils. His brother did not wake. 

“Again?” Mycroft demanded, expecting no reply. 

With a swift motion not befitting his current girth, Mycroft hauled his brother to his feet and dragged Sherlock to the first-floor lavatory. He turned on the cold water and shoved Sherlock’s face into the sink with a practiced hand that did not let Sherlock’s head touch the tap or the basin. 

The doorbell rang when Sherlock began to sputter, cough, and regain his senses. Mycroft turned the sink off, made certain that Sherlock was lying on the floor on his side, and then let the trusted psychiatrist into the Holmes’ manor. On her way out the door, his mother grabbed hold of his tie and managed to rip it. Mycroft assisted the psychiatrist with securing his mother in the backseat of the car and watched them leave. Once gone, Mycroft hurried back inside to check on Sherlock when his phone beeped. He frowned and fished it out as he entered the manor and locked the door. “You’re in the bathroom for God’s sake. You knew I was re–” Mycroft’s eyes narrowed and he brought the phone closer to his face to read the tiny screen when he realized the text was not from his brother. 

_Mr. Holmes, your number is still private. You can panic later. – M_

The only people allowed this phone number were his most trusted of colleagues and his younger brother. While Mycroft knew Sherlock frequented less than reputable establishments, he doubted anyone would suspect the person labelled “Cupcake” on Sherlock’s phone held the keys to the castle. Mycroft resented the moniker, but said nothing in favour of privacy. Mycroft pocketed his phone and returned to the lavatory to get Sherlock sorted out. 

Mycroft put his best men on tracking down M. However, no one discovered the source and the leak. The second text did not come for five more years. By then, the Holmes brothers’ mother was so far gone that she lived in a secret psychiatric facility for those who needed the utmost privacy. Sherlock still lived at home, his drug habit interspersed with mysteries and forensic experiments. Sherlock kept body parts in a refrigerator in his room. Mycroft kept track of where the parts came from, always wary of what Sherlock’s habits might bring into the press. Mycroft had many phones and numbers since the initial text. This new text was also a different number than Mycroft recorded. 

_Does a snow cloud miss the sun? – M_

Mycroft had not forgotten the anomaly from five years ago. He set his jaw and sent in an order to get the new number looked into, hoping for a better result with the increasing technology his people utilized. Once he sent the order, Mycroft exited his chauffeured car. He was on business, having received an urgent call from headquarters near twenty minutes prior. 

Mycroft met other department men and they proceeded into a salon, past the foyer, the hair styling room, and into a back room. The room smelled of powerful chemicals and the backdoor was ajar. The body was slumped back against a supply cabinet decorated with a large smear of blood. Mycroft and his men went to work, looking for evidence and cleaning up all traces of the crime. It was not a murder scene to leave and come back to as police might in an average day of work. 

The corpse belonged to a man named Alfred, just a year older than Mycroft. The two ran around Eton together where Mycroft got the top grades and Alfred got the top social honours. Over the decades since their graduations, the pair met off and on, enjoying each other when appropriate. It was never anything serious and this was the first time Mycroft saw Alfred since becoming “the British government itself,” as Sherlock liked to put it. Alfred’s job observed threats and kept abreast of international crime that might touch British soil or involve British citizens. 

At the scene, Mycroft remained quiet and efficient. Once back at the manor, he pulled files and gained access into Alfred’s case on a secured network. The case started as a murdered British official in Paris and grew into a quest to amount evidence of a crime syndicate, which seemed to branch into different types of trafficking, counterfeiting, and other criminal pursuits. As Mycroft scrutinised the evidence, it became apparent that someone, or perhaps a small group, was at the head of the organisation like a mafia family without the biology. There was necessary evidence missing from the files and what evidence was there was all either circumstantial or evidence that just led to bigger, far-reaching conclusions. The people that could be attached to any evidence clearly were so subordinate they probably did not know who pulled their strings. 

As night fell, Mycroft leaned back in his chair in the study. He looked at the clock and took a deep breath. Sherlock had yet to return home and the night marked the twentieth anniversary of the first time their father got sick from suspected poison. Mycroft secured everything by protocol and grabbed a light jacket. He knew where Sherlock might be. It was time to find Sherlock and bring him back home for the night.

Over the next few years, M sent Mycroft various texts. Sometimes M would call a government bluff that should have stayed classified. Other times he left riddles. Just before Christmas, the brothers’ mother died. The next week, Sherlock took up an offer from a former client and secured residence at 221 Baker Street in the second story flat. By the end of January, Sherlock had a flat mate named John, who, for a man with a temper, seemed to have all the tolerance and more to spare for Sherlock’s whims. The man was a doctor and a blogger, bringing great recognition and interest to Sherlock’s consulting detective hobby. 

The night after Mycroft assessed John face to face in the parking garage of one of the BBC lots, M sent the shortest text Mycroft received from him to that date. 

_Pink phone._

Mycroft did keep his eyes open for a pink phone, but there were none. All of his assistants carried the standard issue phone with black casing. He did not know any teenagers that might be attached to such a colour. Mycroft monitored John’s blog and soon discovered that his brother ran into a pink phone in one of his cases. Mycroft received another short text soon after the phone reappeared in his brother’s possessions. At the time, Mycroft was unaware of its return. 

_Shoes._

Mycroft kept eyes on Sherlock and John as best he could. As expected, a pair of trainers appeared in Sherlock’s possession. The trainers connected back to a crime Sherlock talked everyone’s ear off about as a teenager. When Mycroft was in Scotland on business, M managed to manipulate Sherlock into meeting him. Sherlock picked the place. John called it “The Great Game” in his blog. Mycroft discovered Sherlock’s message at The Science of Deduction, luring Moriarty to the pool hours after the incident occurred. He set out for London at once. Sherlock texted him shortly after Mycroft began his journey. 

_All alive and uninjured. – SH_

Mycroft frowned. He would still assess it for himself. Just before he could call Sherlock, another text arrived on his phone. 

_Wet run. Next time might be dry. Next time might go BOOM._

That was the last text message M, who Sherlock now called Moriarty, sent Mycroft for at least three months. Mycroft kept all of these messages from Sherlock as he had from the beginning. Mycroft had yet to receive one in front of a sober Sherlock. While it was unsurprising that Sherlock drew Moriarty to the pool for a confrontation, it bothered Mycroft to the core. He knew he would have to act against Moriarty before Moriarty could lure Sherlock out to another location alone. 

The months stretched out spanning a year’s worth of holidays with texts from M interspersed at random intervals including the revelation that criminals were blowing up planes of corpses. Spring found Mycroft entrenched in planning security and other concerns for the upcoming G8 summit in London. Sherlock and John were having many adventures, but only if Mycroft became involved did Moriarty’s fingerprints seem to appear across the investigation. 

One night, with only few days until the leaders of the world arrived in London for the summit, Mycroft heard his phone chime a text message. He set his pen and notepad of coded arrangements aside and looked at his phone. 

_Eight._

It was uncommonly short. It seemed too obvious. Mycroft stared at his phone for a long moment and in the late hour, carefully punched a word and sent it back to Moriarty. 

_Obvious._

Mycroft returned to his plans. He was almost finished with every imaginable contingency, some of which carried Moriarty’s dramatic flair. He worked off of intelligence gained by agents in the field and his own intuition. He could not prepare for every eventuality, but he would try. His phone chimed again. 

_Is it?_

Mycroft did not respond to this text and continued with his work. Eight hours later, an urgent call woke Mycroft. He dressed with a practiced rush without haste. His car brought him within sight of the location of the G8 summit, but still two blocks out from it. “Report,” Mycroft ordered.

“About twenty minutes ago,” one of the men who met Mycroft began, “Janice Hadley called for ambulances, claiming her office party had bad food poisoning. Soon other calls from around the building came in of dead bodies and illness. Those who left the building quickly appear to be recovering. Anyone who stayed in the building for whatever reason is dead or almost dead as far as we are aware. The hazmat team went in about ten minutes ago.” 

“Do you know the cause yet?” Mycroft felt his skin crawl as he observed the building from this distance. 

“No,” the man reported. “Those waiting at the nearby bus stop do not seem to be suffering from any ill effects as of yet. We thought it most prudent to meet here just in case that should change.” 

“Well, find it,” Mycroft stated. He retrieved his phone and returned to his car, which did remain parked. The summit would have to relocate, and Mycroft recommended the summit remain on schedule. Mycroft had new plans to make and his mind was already working on them. He was not surprised when Sherlock and John appeared in short order. Neither John nor Sherlock mentioned the pink phone, but Mycroft suspected from his brother’s face that he had not answered a riddle fast enough to realize what would occur. Mycroft knew that he had what he needed to lure Moriarty out into the open. The trick would be keeping Sherlock and John away from it, at least temporarily. 

Mycroft had no illusions that he could keep his brother and the doctor from anything. He changed the venue and let the location leak to the press. Then, with cooperation from the prime minister and other world leaders, changed the real location of the G8 to a much more private location. The real G8 was happening tucked away in the South Downs, outside of public eyes. 

Mycroft waited on the top floor of the Reichenbach Hotel. There was surveillance but he knew Moriarty would know where to stand outside of it. Just over Mycroft’s left shoulder and beyond the falls was a door to all the systems in the hotel. There was only one way to access the door, another security measure. Moriarty would have to pass by Mycroft to access the door. Mycroft knew it would be Moriarty. The man was not a consulting criminal, though perhaps he dabbled in such things to gain power over Sherlock. Mycroft knew Moriarty’s goal and he knew Moriarty would appear on this floor, especially with Mycroft present. 

“I know you’re there.” Mycroft turned towards Moriarty and cocked his gun.

“You can’t shoot me in this light. We both know you’re night-blind.” 

“All I need is one shot. I know where you are.” 

“Your brother is coming.” 

“Yes. You won’t get to see him.” Mycroft pulled the trigger. He was Moriarty’s true target. Mycroft knew that they both had men hidden throughout the building. His own men were insurance against Moriarty’s men. The silencer on Mycroft’s gun kept the noise muffled. The customers of the busy hotel did not seem to notice the sound over their own din. 

Moriarty fell to the ground, bleeding where the bullet grazed him, and grabbed for Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft fell hard on his side but managed to keep hold of his gun. Moriarty’s own gun glinted in the dim lighting. Mycroft rolled to the right slightly then rolled to the left out of the line of the shot. He got to his feet. He could feel his heart rate skyrocketing. He aimed for Moriarty but could not find him. He pointed his gun at the place he suspected Moriarty to be lurking when someone with great force grabbed him by the jacket from behind, already running. Moriarty used the momentum of the run to move Mycroft, sending the pair for the protective gate around the apex of the falls. 

Mycroft dropped his gun along the way, reached out, and grabbed the railing, which was slick from the waterfall’s mist. Both men leaned dangerously over the railing for a moment, but Mycroft managed to shake Moriarty. Moriarty slid across the safe side of the gate’s bars before landing hard on his posterior. Mycroft moved a step away from the falls, trying to locate his gun in the low light. 

“Stay down, Jim,” someone in the darkness instructed. 

Then what sounded like unnaturally loud gunfire echoed around the ball room. Mycroft vaguely heard a body crumple to the ground in the darkness before there was a sharp sting through his chest to his back. Mycroft vaguely saw Sherlock rush forward from the darkness. Sherlock reached out and tried to grab him, but Mycroft was already falling backwards over the gate and down the waterfall’s shaft to the pool below the foyer. 

When hotel security arrived at the ball room, they found the body of Sebastian Moran with a bullet lodged in his brain. Moriarty laid not too far away, his jaw bashed in from a few well-aimed kicks. Bloodied shoe prints running in a haphazard zigzag tapered off as the blood smeared off the soles of the shoes. The police went looking for accomplices and eventually consulted Sherlock, but in the chaos and consequences that followed for Britain, the case was never resolved. 

**The End**


End file.
